The making of the wise

In doom, You pressed on the wound of my heart,
like You would, a call bell
The pressure, the pain, unable to bear,
my heart, it opened out.
You entered, dug on the floor of my heart,
to reach my soul in its depths.
Doom, You blew into my soul
to produce music joyous!

My tears, no hands to wipe them dry,
an ocean of despair around me;
Forlorn in it, I realized soon,
You were teaching me how to swim.
When You were done, I saw and learnt
that despair is never an ocean
and solitude is a gift from You
to those with shy tears!

A cleaner soul, I’ve reached the shore,
there’s still a lot to swim;
my open heart, my toiling mind,
look back to view my past -
on my paining hands, for a path of joy,
You transported bricks of sorrow,
for sorrow is Your classroom
for the making of the wise!